


Three Times John Said It, and Once when Sherlock Did

by Remki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remki/pseuds/Remki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt was "I Love You Platonically". I went from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times John Said It, and Once when Sherlock Did

**Author's Note:**

> John gets beat up, but not too badly. I'm very evil to our dear doctor.

The thing was, it had started over take-out, really.

In the near year that they had been flat mates, John had gotten used to some pretty strange habits on the part of Sherlock. The doctor figured that his time in the service, paired with his natural tendency towards the unusual, had helped him in some way towards accepting the finer points of Sherlock’s company. But what he would never get used to, not even if they lived together for fifty years, was the detective’s eating habits. John was the kind of man who was used to regular meals. The meals didn’t have to be much –he HAD been in the army, after all- but they just needed to _be_. And living with Sherlock had proven that, if it were left up to him, they simply _weren’t_.

So on a day when, during a particularly engaging and trying case, Sherlock had for once in his life remembered that John needed to eat, it had come as a complete surprise.

“Sherlock, dear, there’s someone at the door,” Mrs. Hudson had come in with a small knock, and stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Sherlock, without saying a word or looking up from the text on snake poisons he was engrossed in, handed her a £20 pound note, and she went away. John wondered if Sherlock had simply taken to bribing Mrs. Hudson into silence; it would be a lot better than the random outbursts of frustrated anger directed at the poor woman whenever he was too busy to be polite. But the sound of her small footsteps on the stair told him otherwise, and she came back in with a large paper bag that simply overwhelmed the room with the aroma of curry. John felt his mouth water instantly, and looked up from his own text with an expression of sincerest gratitude.

“Mrs. Hudson, you are a _lifesaver_. Thank you thank you thank you,” he said as he took the bag from her small hands. Mrs. Hudson smiled, but shook her head.

“Oh, don’t thank me, dear. It was _Sherlock_ ,” she said, the last word whispered in a conspiratorial tone and raised eyebrows. The phrase “married ones” flashed across Johns mind, and he could only imagine at what she was trying to suggest. He looked over at his flat mate in surprise, who didn’t even seem to be hearing the exchange.

“Oh. Well then,” he said. “Well, thank you for bringing it up, anyway,” he added with a smile. Mrs. Hudson gave a small shrug and smiled back, before leaving back to her own flat.

John sat down at the table, pushing aside a stack of books to make room for the carry out cartons, and then unloaded the bag. The pungent aroma grew stronger, and John –realizing he hadn’t eaten in nearly two days- felt his stomach growl in anticipation. Fishing out a plastic fork from the bag (he didn’t trust any of the household utensils anymore, not after learning what Sherlock did with them) he opened up a carton and dug in.

It was impossible to restrain the groan of pleasure at that first spicy bite. “Oh. Ooh. Sherlock, I think I love you,” he said.

Sherlock didn’t look up, but raised an eyebrow at the words. John was too enraptured by the food to notice.

After he had downed half the carton, he took a moment to ask, “Aren’t you going to have some?”

“No,” Sherlock drawled. “It’s all yours.”

\---------

The second time it happened was under less-than-pleasant terms.

John liked to think that he could handle most situations in life. He had been in many a tight corner, in the army as well as in his civilian life, and he had always managed to find a way to come out on top… for the most part. To survive, at the very least. He wasn’t cocky (usually) but working with Sherlock had seemed to push him towards recklessness sometimes. But so far, with the exception of Moriarty and his henchmen –and those had been ABDUCTIONS, so it didn’t really count, did it?- he had always been able to manage himself. Maybe that was why he thought chasing two large, heavily built, violent men down an alleyway on his own was a good idea.

It wasn’t.

He was never sure how the first man had managed to get behind him. He was just there, suddenly, sneaking out of the dark and brandishing a copper pipe like a billy club. John ducked the wide swing, only to get booted in the backside by the second man. He went down fast, but could have recovered quickly if the second man hadn’t driven his steeled toe boot right into John’s stomach. John rolled over and groaned, and was met with another boot, this time to the face. A series of blows fell then, from boots, fists, and the copper pipe, and John was suddenly very sure –and very embarrassed- that he would be meeting his end in a dingy alley, beaten to death by two small time thugs. It was laughable, and he _would_ have laughed, if he had had any breath in him. He tried to get up and defend himself, but the men were relentless, and it simply came down to protecting what he could, and trying to stay alive. The men seemed to be enjoying the beating, and so far hadn’t decided to make a quick job of it with one of their knives. John was at least grateful for that.

A blow to the back of the head with the copper pipe nearly knocked him unconscious then, and it became a struggle to stay aware of what was happening. His body seemed to have switched off its pain response, and his vision started swimming. From where he lay on the alley floor, he could see the feet of his assailants, the grimy alleyway, and in the distance, the light of a busy London street as people went about their business and ignored the grunts and shadows of the alleyway. His vision blurred, and then refocused, and suddenly what had been an empty alley now had a new figure in it, striding hard down towards the three bodies in the dark. He shut his eyes to clear them of the haze that threatened to overtake them again, and when he opened them, the figure was now just another pair of feet, standing behind his assailants. Another blink, and suddenly both men had fallen over, and Sherlock was there, bending over the prone body of John and searching desperately for a sign of life. John, for his part, broke a bloodied smile at the detective’s look of concern, and tried to pull himself up from the ground. His body refused, but the long arm of Sherlock was suddenly around his shoulders and propping him up, the other busy with his phone.

“Lestrade, it’s me. I need an ambulance, quickly. Yes, we’re at---”

John didn’t hear the address. He had drifted into unconsciousness. It was Sherlock shaking him roughly that brought him back, and he looked up at his flat mate. He knew he should stay awake, not give in to the strong desire to just lie down and _sleep_ , but it just felt so easy. He was thankful for Sherlock, for keeping his head and keeping John awake.

“I bet I look terrible,” he muttered through a swollen lip.

“You’ll live,” Sherlock said with his usual flippancy, but his eyes said more than he ever could about his own concern. In the distance John could hear the wail of a siren grow close. Sherlock ignored it, and tried to keep John aware and focused.

“What did you think you were doing?” he asked flatly. John wondered if he was upset or simply curious about the doctor’s motives. He started to shrug, but the pain the movement sent shooting through his body told him to keep still. He answered quietly,

“Just what you would have done.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at that, that small sort of huff he had when John said something all too close to the truth.

“Well, don’t, next time. You’re supposed to be the doctor, not me,” he said. The sirens grew closer, and then suddenly there were flashing lights and people surrounding him, and he was on a stretcher, and paramedics were asking him and Sherlock all kinds of questions, and Lestrade was there too, looking worried and irritated all at once. John drifted back into unconsciousness. The feel of a hand in his own, squeezing tightly, brought him back. He stared up at Sherlock, who was looking down at him with that frozen mask of distance he wore when he was seriously worried. John tried to smile again, and hoped it wasn’t as grotesque looking as it felt.

“It’ll be fine, Sherlock,” he said, and squeezed the man’s hand as much as he could, but his grip was too weak to be reassuring, and he knew it. “I’ll be alright.”

The paramedics started to move the stretcher, but Sherlock didn’t let go. He followed the stretcher as they started to lift it in, and would have crawled in behind them when Lestrade stopped him.

“Sherlock, you have _got_ to answer these questions,” the man said.

“Not now,” Sherlock answered without looking, but John squeezed the man’s hand to stop him.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, I’ll be fine, really. Give the man what he needs, and I’ll see you at the hospital.”

Sherlock looked determined to ignore this, but John squeezed again. “ _Really._ I love you, man, but you’re not going to be of any use while they treat me.”

Sherlock hovered somewhere between his desire to go with the ambulance, and the fact that John was right. Finally, with an irritated sigh, he let go of the doctor’s hand, and left the ambulance. John sighed, disappointed but glad that the detective could see reason. He watched his flat mate as the doors closed, and the ambulance pulled away. Sherlock, on his part, watched the ambulance as it pulled away, until it had turned the corner and was out of sight.

\-------------

The third time it happened, it was over his jumper.

John, while not the most fashionably conscious man in the world, did have one love instilled in him at an early age by his mother: A love of comfy jumpers that defied all logic and modern style. And he always had at least one that he was particularly attached to. Right then, it was his cream colored jumper with the cable knitting, the first thing he had purchased when he returned from Afghanistan. It had become a comfort, in its small way, through all the crazy adventures with Sherlock, and had many memories attached to it, both good and bad. So when it went missing from the laundry for almost an entire week, John found himself feeling quite out of sorts. It wasn’t the nicest jumper anymore, he knew; what with various embedded bloodstains, some bits burned, and the edges discolored by chemicals, it was rather worse for wear. But all the same he liked it, and was rather upset that it had gone missing. He didn’t tell Sherlock, outside of asking if the man had seen it somewhere, but he knew Sherlock had noticed. Sherlock noticed almost everything.

John searched high and low around the flat (except Sherlock’s room), he asked Mrs. Hudson if she had accidentally taken it, he had even searched the practice, inquired around Bart’s mortuary, and Lestrade’s department at the yard. It was nowhere.

And then on Saturday suddenly it was there, hanging off the back of his usual chair. John stopped in the doorway at stared at it dumbly for a moment. Then, he turned a disbelieving eye on Sherlock, who was sitting nonchalantly in his chair, rifling through the daily papers in search of some interesting new crime.

“Where did you find it?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t look up, but a small smirk twitched at the edge of his lips.

“On the drying line at a rather irate little old lady’s home, about half a block from here.”

John’s brow knit in confusion. “What?”

“You left it on the railing outside the door on Monday, after you had fallen into the Thames, remember?”

John couldn’t forget, and he knew the blokes down at the yard wouldn’t let him forget for quite a while either.

“That’s right,” he said, remembering. “I’d taken it off because it had gotten so heavy with all that water. I’d meant to bring it in after I changed and got some towels, but I fell asleep. You mean to say she just grabbed it off the railing?”

“On her way back from morning shopping. She thought it would be nice for her husband, apparently.”

John raised an eyebrow and snorted, disappointed with little old ladies for the day. “How’d you get it back?” He asked.

“Nicked it off the line, of course,” Sherlock said. “Though she caught me about halfway across the yard and tried to stick her little yappy terrier on me.”

John grinned from ear to ear, and picked up the jumper. He slipped it on over his shirt, and sighed in satisfaction.

“Ah, that’s it,” he said happily. “I don’t know how you do it, Sherlock, but I love you for it.”

Sherlock looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

“You keep saying that,” he stated.

Confused, John asked, “Saying what?”

“That you ‘love’ me,” Sherlock answered, looking back at the newspapers. John wanted to laugh at the way Sherlock seemed unfamiliar with the right way to say ‘love’. Instead,

“Because I do,” he stated simply.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow again, and in his expression John saw that look that Sherlock had given him months and months before, when they had first met and had a rather awkward conversation in Angelo’s about Sherlock and what was ‘fine’. John met the look with a deadpan stare that gave no room for false interpretation.

“Platonically, Sherlock. I mean I love you _platonically_.”

Sherlock, though he was a master in the art of self restraint, visibly relaxed at this.

“Oh,” he said. “Well then, I love you too.”

John’s grin returned, amused as all hell, and Sherlock gave him a scathing look.

“Platonically, that is.”


End file.
